I lied.

First of all, don’t read this.  Just don’t.

The last post I wrote was a total lie.  I didn’t know it was, but it was.  After I wrote it, I got the kids downstairs for breakfast and went out to check on the baby bird because I didn’t hear any family fun time tweeting.

There was no family fun time tweeting because the nest was destroyed.  Something had torn it apart and eaten the dead birds inside.  I don’t know if it ate the birds that were alive, but they’re gone, too.

It was about that time that I was working on getting the classroom cleaned up when I heard Boris yowling the weird yowl that he does when he’s going to have a hairball.  That’s what I told myself, anyway.  It sounded wrong.  Wrong-wrong. And I knew right away that it was wrong.  He was in the living room, throwing up, or at least, trying to throw up.  He was dry heaving and he was struggling.  The vomited a little bit of clear fluid.  No big deal.  Another lie.  Then, he just laid down.  He was so exhausted he couldn’t even get up.  He wouldn’t turn his head when I called him.  He just laid there.

I picked him up and he was limp in my arms.  I even took him outside and he didn’t try to jump down on the deck to see the sights and smell the smells and try to make a Boris-esque break for the grass.  He was just grateful to be held; to be outside.  Another lie.  I wasn’t even telling myself good lies anymore.  Long story short, I had to find a vet and figure out what to do.  I couldn’t find the cat carrier, but he hated the cat carrier anyway so I got the kids in the car, wrapped him in a towel like a baby and held him as I drove us all to the vet. Boris didn’t make a peep in the car.  He hated the car.  When we got in, he didn’t make a sound.  He wasn’t even scared.  He closed his eyes and purred.  At this point, I really thought he was playing me.  As if this old man was some master pranker trying to get some attention.  I was hoping for that, anyway.

We sat in the waiting room and a Scottie dog came in and growled and barked at us.  Boris didn’t even flinch.  He didn’t move when I put him on the exam table but to my delight, he did struggle when it was temperature time.  The vet said he had really strong muscles, hahah.  I thought it was a sign that he was still going to fight.  But he didn’t.  He was dehydrated and “a little depressed”.  He didn’t fight when they took him to draw blood.  He didn’t fight when they brought him back and laid him on the exam table.  We hung out and talked about going home.  They told me I could wait or stay for test results but it would be about an hour.  The vet was about 2 miles from the house so I opted to go home to get the kids out of there for a while.  I wanted to stay.  I wanted to crawl up on that bed and lay with him.  We left and Josh said “we didn’t get to say goodbye to Boris!”  I said we didn’t need to, because we’d be back to pick him up and then we’d all go home.  So I left him there and sat on my couch waiting for the vet to call me and tell me everything was fine.

And then they called and he wasn’t fine.  Nothing was fine.  His kidneys didn’t work and I am too fucking poor.  I wanted to throw up.  I wanted to scream at them for not giving me a payment plan that I could afford.  For a split second I wanted to not have kids so that I could afford to keep my cat alive.  But all I could do was blubber and ask if I would be able to take him home.  You know, after.  They said yes.

I had to take the kids with me while they killed my cat.

I spent some time with him before it was time and felt so stupid.  I didn’t know what to say. I let the kids hug him one last time.  I stroked his fur and stared at him.  There just was no way he was sick.  His eyes were so alive and his fur was so shiny and beautiful.  Can’t anyone just be goddamn fucking tired anymore without being sick?  He purred.  And even though he was so dehydrated, he licked my hand in such a feeble way.  I tried to convince myself that this wasn’t my cat.  Boris doesn’t shut up.  Boris will lick the flesh off of your bones to show you how much he loves you.  There was no way this was my fucking cat.

And then with his head in my hand and his body in my arms they put my cat to sleep.  They said I could have as much time as I wanted but that was a lie.  I wanted more time.  Years more.  I wailed.  I made no brave attempt to cry softly or hide my tears or any of that bullshit.  I wrapped him up like a baby and held him in my arms and drove us all home just as I had driven us all there.

I don’t really have a need to get into anything else, so here’s some pictures of Boris.

circa 2000, Fort Worth, TX

circa 2009, Josh and Boris sharing Cheerios.

circa 2001, bad artist's rendition

circa 2006, Boris was always patient and put up with weird stuff.

My favorite picture of Boris.

He had the best tummy.

By the time I had Robin, he was getting less impressed with kids.

But he still tolerated a lot.

circa 2010

He used to sleep with me when I was home alone.

He also made the kids feel better when they were sick.

circa 2011, Boris spent every late night with me.

Good night, Boris. See you later.

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6 thoughts on “I lied.

  1. My kitty died last year, he was super gentle like yours and put up with so much (prob. bc he was declawed (but don’t tell anyone that part or I’ll be lynched.)
    He was not eating for like days or weeks. So we took him to the vet and it turned out he had all these tumors that made it hurt too much to eat. (Which is like the saddest disease ever IMO.)
    Anyway something I find weirdly comforting is the movie Pet cemetery. (Thx Stephen king)
    Because it reminds me that I wouldn’t have wanted my kitty around a second longer than he was supposed to be.
    I’m glad he has borris to hang out with now too. They’re both pretty chill. So I bet their hangin out in the catnip room or whatever other cool stuff goes on in kitty heaven.

    • I thought I had replied to this but I guess I didn’t because I’m a horrible person. I’m sorry Garrison Destroyer of Worlds died. Boris was also declawed and in fact, he had it done a bit later in his life–I didn’t have it done until I moved into my house so he was a few years old already. He had no ill effects and if anything, made his boxing methods even better. Boris loved to box. It’s funny, I had a cat that was so much like a dog and now I have a dog that’s so much like a cat. I also totally agree on the Pet Semetary thing. I need a demonic, soulless cat and/or toddler like I need a hole in my head.

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